


Jon and Theon's Frantic Humping Spree

by cleromancy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Sexual Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:17:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2315723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleromancy/pseuds/cleromancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How many times can you blow someone before it becomes a <i>thing</i>?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jon falls face-first on Theon's dick

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this off and on for almost a year. I decided to start publishing an installment every week or so to light a fire under my ass to finish it. 
> 
> I tagged this as a romantic comedy but it's a little less romantic than it is sexual, so maybe 'sexual comedy' is a better descriptor. There's no explicit porn in this chapter, but there will be some in the next one. 
> 
> warning: alcohol use. feedback appreciated.

Jon doesn’t know how exactly he winds up sucking Theon’s dick. Honestly, it’s not something he’d ever have anticipated. 

It starts when the rugby team suckers Robb into hosting a party at their apartment. Robb, Theon, and Jon live off-campus where they can have alcohol, which makes it an ideal party location, and Robb’s terrible at saying ‘no’ to people, so it wasn't hard for his teammates to get his permission. So Jon and Theon, crammed in an apartment with a bunch of rowdy drunk athletes they don’t know, are more or less forced to hole up together in Jon’s room in defense. 

They declare a temporary truce—they’ve managed truces before, albeit rarely—and Theon mixes nasty drinks, vodka with Red Bull, laughing when Jon wrinkles his nose. 

“That’s gonna taste like alcohol-flavored piss,” Jon says. Still, he takes the cup when Theon passes it over. Maybe Robb’s noisy teammates will seem less obnoxious when he’s buzzed. 

Theon grins, one of his unnerving, too-wide smiles that make him look like Wile E. Coyote. 

“Bottoms up, asshole,” he says, gesturing demonstratively with his cup. “Unless you’re scared of a little vodka.” 

Jon rolls his eyes, but drinks, managing not to grimace at the taste or the burn going down. Which, he notices, is more than Theon can say for himself. 

He chugs the first cup, only to discover that the aftertaste is somehow even worse than the initial flavor. So to wash down the taste of gasoline, he downs another. He figures if he drinks enough, he can wrangle his taste buds into submission.

Around halfway through the second drink, Jon glances over at Theon to make a comment about how the noise is more bearable with the vodka, and promptly forgets what he was about to say. Theon’s lounging back in his chair, legs spread in a way that is probably not meant to look as suggestive as it does. Like an invitation. Not that it is, of course, but it still makes Jon’s thoughts wander to giving head. Specifically, how much he likes doing it, and—when was the last time he went down on someone, anyway? Way too long ago. Fuck, that sounds good right now. The room is suddenly too hot. Jon wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. He takes a deep breath, trying to quell the lightheadedness, but when he inhales, he can almost smell sweat, body musk. Like what he'd be smelling with his head between Theon’s thighs. It’d be a better way to get rid of the nasty taste in his mouth. 

Coughing, Jon averts his eyes, taking another long swig as he does. He shouldn’t be thinking about this right now. Or ever. 

When Jon finishes his second cup, Theon wordlessly pours him another. Maybe Jon shouldn’t take it, but he does, hoping the battery acid taste will clear his head. He takes a gulp, squeezing his eyes closed as he swallows. 

“Puts hair on your chest,” Theon says. 

Jon glances over automatically. And regrets it, because Theon’s position is no less provocative than before. His careless sprawl is far more appealing than it should be, from the casual drape of his arms to the denim stretched taut on his spread thighs. Unbidden, Jon’s eyes flick down to Theon’s crotch. When his mouth starts _watering_ , he knows he’s in trouble. 

This, here, figuring out that Theon’s fucked up idea of a mixed drink apparently makes Jon start craving cock, this is something new he’s learning about himself at a really, really bad time. This is just like when he learned he had bad ankles when his coach had gotten him to try running hurdles at track practice, except instead of spraining something he’s—

—dragging his eyes slowly up Theon’s torso to his face. He’s watching Jon closely, his eyes that gone all dark and heavy-lidded, his lips fallen the smallest bit parted. He looks like he knows exactly what Jon’s thinking about and, more importantly, that doesn’t mind at all. 

It would be a lot easier to be logical about this if Jon didn’t feel like his chest was full to bursting, like fire was flooding through his veins, like he could _already_ feel the weight of a dick in his mouth. A very quiet voice in the back of his mind is telling him that he could go to the bathroom where he could stuff his fingers in his mouth and jerk off, and then when he came back they could all pretend this never happened. The rest of him isn’t thinking at all, too busy with giddy anticipation, with getting oh his knees and looking up at Theon from between his legs. 

_Tomorrow I am going to pretend that I was_ so _much drunker than I actually am_ , Jon thinks, and shoves Theon’s jeans down. 

**

The funny thing is, Theon would've had Jon pegged as someone who spit instead of swallowed and complained about the taste afterward. But then, he’d never considered that Jon would be the kind of person who’d give out random blowjobs to people he didn’t even _like_ , so. He’s learning some new things today.

Jon pulls off Theon’s softening dick with a slick pop and, as Theon watches helplessly, wondering what just happened, runs his tongue over the red swell of his lower lip and catches some come he’d missed. Theon’s dick gives a pathetic little twitch. 

“I—” Theon says, and Jon looks up at him with those enormous eyes through the frame of his long, dark eyelashes. 

Theon stares down at him for a second, loses his train of thought completely for a moment. Then, wrenching his eyes away, he pulls his jeans up, zips them, and walks straight out of Jon’s room. He trips a little on his way, because his knees still feel like fucking jelly, and Jon doesn’t even laugh. 

*

The next day, after an extremely hungover Robb leaves for his nine o’clock Stats class, Theon hangs around the kitchen, tapping his fingers restlessly as he leans against the cabinet.

He doesn’t want to see Jon at all, but. Better to catch him quick and nip this in the bud. As unappealing as looking Jon in the eye sounds, it’s better than anyone finding out about this. The sooner Theon can forget about how Jon’s mouth looked on his dick—better yet, forget that it ever happened at all—the better. 

Trust Jon to make getting head _complicated_. 

It’s not ten minutes before Jon drags himself into the kitchen, caffeine zombie that he is. When Jon sees Theon, he freezes. Normally Theon would find Jon's deer-in-the-headlights face funny, but now it makes discomfort squirm in Theon’s gut. He looks away, and in the corner of his eye, he can see Jon doing the same as he walks to the coffeepot, his movements pointedly broadcasting _I am pretending you do not exist_. It’s pathetic to watch. Theon would sneer, except he’s too busy trying to collect his scattered thoughts. 

His hands clench and unclench at his sides as he waits. When Jon fills his cup, he turns to go, but he has to walk past Theon to leave. Before he can, though, Theon grabs his arm.

“So—” Theon starts, then wets his lips and starts again. “So, no one is going to hear about last night, yeah?” 

Jon yanks his arm back. “Who exactly do you think I’d tell, Greyjoy?” 

Theon feels like maybe he should be insulted, except, well. This is what he wanted. And it’s not like Theon’s bursting to tell anyone either. So. 

“Right,” Theon says, exhaling. “So, we’re agreed, then. Nothing happened.” 

Jon gives him a short, terse nod. “Nothing happened,” he confirms, taking his coffee from the counter and retreating back to his room. 

*

The problem is, something _did_ happen. Specifically, a really mind-blowing orgasm happened. Mind-blowing both in the sense of being baffling and in the sense of being incredibly, impossibly good. 

And Theon can't stop thinking about it.


	2. That thing that wasn't going to happen again? It happens again.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this time is the last time. Wait, no, _this_ time is the last time. Okay, one more time, but after this, we're done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a brief mention of anxiety-induced trichotillomania (hair pulling). And more alcohol consumption.

For the next two weeks, midterms keep Theon and Jon too busy for any awkward encounters. After midterms are over, though, Robb bullies them both into winding down. Theon's tempted to blow him off, just to avoid being in close quarters with Jon, but. Robb doesn't handle school stress well. He's been pulling his hair out and biting his nails down to the quick, and there are deep purple bags under his eyes from all the sleep he hasn't been getting. Seeing that makes Theon sick with guilt—he's been too busy with his own shit to help Robb out like he usually does. And now Robb's making puppydog eyes at him, wheedling and pleading, so. Theon gives in.

It doesn't take long to regret it. 

With both Jon and Theon in the room together, even with Robb as a buffer, the tension is suffocating. The TV’s going and Robb’s prattling on, but all Theon can think about is Jon, three feet from him. He keeps trying and failing to not sneak glances at Jon's mouth. What's worse is that Theon can feel Jon's eyes on him. He never catches Jon doing it, but somehow it's even more distracting than Jon's mouth. Robb's no real diversion, either. It's hard to follow the conversation—Theon's responding on automatic and Jon's making noncommittal noises, neither of which Robb seems to find unusual. There's not even much alcohol to distract them, since the only booze they had left was a six pack, and that goes quickly between the three of them. 

When the beer is gone, Robb says pointedly, "We should go pick up some more," and stares expectantly at Theon and Jon. 

Normally, Theon, Jon, or both would offer to go with Robb to get it, but Theon’s twitchy and Jon’s frozen staring at nothing, so the hints Robb drops don't hit their intended mark. Eventually Robb huffs and gets up to leave, muttering about how it's _fine_ and he can get it on his _own_ as he pulls on his jacket.

When the door closes behind Robb, though, it hits Theon that he didn’t think this through. Now that Robb is gone, Theon and Jon are alone, and there’s nothing left to do but desperately avoid each other's eyes. 

It's the first time they've have been alone together since the morning after Jon blew him. _Nothing happened,_ Theon thinks. He peeks at Jon out of the corner of his eye, only to find Jon looking back. 

Caught, Theon jolts, jerking his eyes away abruptly. His nerves are tingling, goosebumps prickling up and down his arms. He wishes it would stop. _Nothing happened. Nothing is going to happen,_ he tells himself firmly, trying not to listen to the voice in his head reminding him that it did happen, and when it happened it was fantastic, and that he would very much like for it to happen again. Unbidden, Theon's eyes slides back to Jon. 

Who is. Licking his lips. Oh, God. Theon can remember in perfect clarity the way those lips looked stretched around his cock, the way that tongue felt lapping up the underside to lave around the head. He tries to catch his breath, and can't. He wants to look away—tries to look away—but only succeeds in raising his eyes to meet Jon's. 

Jon's watching Theon watch him, that heavy-lidded look in his eyes that he'd had before he'd gotten on his knees. A violent shiver runs through Theon. 

Without looking away, Jon deliberately bites his lower lip before slowly letting it slide free, wet and red and full. 

Theon swallows. 

**

Twenty minutes later, Jon's leaning his head on Theon's thigh, panting, when there's the sound of the lock clicking in the door. Jon scrambles up frantically, throwing himself onto the couch as Theon yanks his jeans back up, cursing under his breath about button flies. Just as Jon grabs the afghan off the back of the couch to cover his lap, Robb enters, case of PBR in his hand, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it on the chair next to the door. 

"That took forever," Robb groans, dropping the case on the coffee table. “You would not believe this girl in front of me.” 

Robb sighs, rolling his shoulders, and flops down next to Theon, who flinches violently and leaps up from the couch.

"I have to go... do… do some homework," Theon says to no one in particular, and then scampers, leaving Jon staring incredulously after him. 

_Thanks, Greyjoy, that's not obvious at all,_ Jon thinks. He looks down, clears his throat uncomfortably. He can still taste Theon’s come; it should be disgusting but, unfortunately, isn't. He's a little too aware of how flushed his face is, and of the blanket crumpled over his wilting erection. Cautiously, he glances at Robb out of the corner of his eye, and sees him looking, bemused, in the direction Theon left. 

"Is he feeling alright?" Robb asks.

"Who knows," Jon says. 

If his voice sounds a little hoarse, Robb doesn't seem to notice; instead, he shrugs and launches into an anecdote about the girl in the checkout line paying for beer and cigarettes with nickels and dimes, and Jon tries not to think about the lingering taste of come in his mouth.

**

After that catastrophic failure, Theon and Jon, by mutual silent agreement, throw themselves into to avoiding each other. They succeed—to a point—for almost a week, but the apartment is small, and there's only so long they're lucky enough not to catch each other alone. This time when they run into each other, it’s in the kitchen. 

Theon stops and freezes and Jon, across the room, does the same. Theon stares at Jon, his body flooding with adrenaline, and Jon stares back like a bizarrely sexy deer in the headlights. They're staring and staring and staring, unmoving, barely even breathing, until Jon makes a noise deep in his throat and surges forward. 

He shoves Theon back against the fridge and then he’s on his knees, tugging Theon's jeans and boxers down, and Theon threads his fingers helplessly in Jon's curls, trying not to tremble. 

Jon braces himself with a hand on Theon’s bare hip, and even that touch has Theon’s breath catching. But Jon’s not moving to take Theon in his mouth; he's just looking, sizing Theon up, his gaze admiring in a way that shouldn’t turn Theon on as much as it does. He's looking at Theon's cock like just the sight of it is making his mouth water. Theon swallows, exhaling heavily. Somehow he's not sure whether he wants Jon to keep looking at him like that or just suck him already. 

Just as that crosses his mind, Jon leans forward.

Not to take Theon’s hardening cock into his mouth, just to nose at it, then nuzzling. _Christ, Jon,_ Theon thinks, mouth going dry. Jon’s cheek is soft and his lips are softer, a contrast to the coarseness of the week-old stubble. All of it feels incredible on Theon's dick, but it's nothing compared to the way Jon looks, like he could spend all day contentedly nuzzling Theon’s cock. 

Then Jon’s mouthing along the sides of Theon's cock, his lips warm and wet and soft, his tongue darting out to lick, just teasing, until he reaches the tip. He pulls back slightly to wrapping his free hand around the base, and then leans back in to lap at the head with long, flat strokes of his tongue. Then, slowly, he lowers his head to take Theon into his mouth. 

Jon doesn't take Theon any deeper than the head, suckling gently and agonizingly slowly, looking for all the world like he’s savoring the taste. Theon bites down a whimper, his chest heaving. He can't tear his eyes from the hollows of Jon’s cheeks, the stretched red ring of Jon’s lips around his cock. 

The suction is just this side of not enough, but if Theon shoved Jon’s head further down, Jon would probably stop. Instead, Theon twines his hands tighter in Jon's hair, grounding himself to keep his hips from jerking. Jon's eyes are still closed, and Theon wonders suddenly if he’s imagining someone else’s cock in his mouth. It stings to think—another way Theon's not good enough—but Jon's mouth feels too good for him to cling to the bitterness. And Jon looks so beautiful with his eyes closed, his long dark eyelashes fanning delicately against his pale cheeks. 

Jon's fingers dig into Theon's hip. He sinks down further on Theon's cock, taking more into his mouth, humming in satisfaction as he goes. Theon chokes off a curse, his knees buckling slightly. Jon's mouth is so hot, and it's like all the blood in Theon's body is pulsing in his dick. Dizzy, Theon slumps back against the refrigerator, trying to catch his breath, and then Jon pulls back to swirl his tongue around the head of Theon’s dick.

It’s sloppy. There’s a wet trail of spit down Jon’s chin that he didn’t manage to swallow. He looks depraved, flushed and messy, but he doesn’t seem to care, slurping Theon back down greedily, swallowing around his cock again. 

"Fuck," Theon whispers, hoarse. _I’m going to die. He’s going to suck my life out through my dick._ His breath shudders out and he grits his teeth, bracing himself harder against the refrigerator to keep from sliding down.

Jon's dark head is bobbing steadily, slick wet noises as he sucks Theon's cock. They're obscene; everything about Jon is obscene. The way he fell on Theon's cock like he'd been fantasizing about it, like he'd been as eager for it as Theon, like he was desperate to take Theon into his mouth. 

Another overwhelmed little noise threatens to escape Theon's mouth. His fingers twist too tight in Jon's hair, inadvertently pulling, and Jon groans around Theon's cock, his rhythm faltering. Abruptly, Theon remembers how the last time Jon sucked him off, he had grabbed Theon’s hand said, “pull my hair or I’ll stop,” and, now, Theon gives Jon's hair a short, sharp tug. 

Jon whines, and it's almost too much for Theon, the noises and the sensation and the sight of Jon on his knees. For years, Theon's fantasized about how Jon would look sucking cock, has privately thought Jon's mouth was made for it, but nothing about the fantasy measures up to the reality. Breathing in sharply through his nose, Theon squeezes his eyes shut. If he looks at Jon any longer, he's going to come down Jon's throat—and Jon will swallow it all down, all that he can, but maybe some will drip out the corner of Jon's mouth onto his chin, and maybe he'd let Theon lick him clean— 

Theon shudders hard, imagining tasting himself on Jon's damnable, beautiful mouth. He wants to, even more than he wants Jon to swallow it all; he wants Jon messy with Theon's come, wants Jon to taste like him. An image of Jon with Theon's come on his face flashes in Theon's mind's eye, and the heat in his belly tightens warningly, and his fists clench white-knuckled in Jon's curls, and his orgasm crashes through him so hard that it's all he can do to keep himself upright. 

His eyes are squeezed shut so tightly that sparks shoot off behind them as Jon sucks him through it. His breath is coming in short, sharp pants, slowly lengthening as Jon finally pulls off. It takes longer for the fireworks in Theon's head to die down, and when he opens his eyes, Jon's gone. 

Lolling his head back against the refrigerator, Theon exhales. He wishes he'd seen Jon's lips after they were swollen and red from sucking him. He knows what it looks like now, which should help, but all it does is make him want to see it more. He tugs his jeans back up and stares at the ceiling, trying to get his breathing back to normal. He wonders how many times Jon can blow him before it becomes a _thing_. 

_It's not like we plan it,_ Theon thinks defensively. As far as he knows, the plan is still _not_ doing it, except Jon keeps swooping in like a benevolent blowjob fairy. Theon's self control just isn't strong enough to turn down the best head of his life. Every time he sees Jon's mouth now he starts getting chills. 

Maybe this is the last time. Theon tries not to remember how certain he was that the first time would be the last time.

At a scuffing noise from the hallway, Theon jerks upright just in time to see Robb shuffle into the kitchen. Horror fills Theon as he realizes that his zipper's still undone, his shirt's sticking to his back with sweat, and that if Robb had been in the hallway, he might have heard Theon and Jon. Hell, if Robb had come by a few minutes earlier, he could have walked in on them. Theon panics, wondering wildly if his face is flushed, if the room smells like come, if somehow Robb will look at him and _know_. 

"Hey," says Robb, crossing across to the sink.

"I didn’t do anything," Theon snaps. 

_Fuck_. He closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, Robb's stopped with a hand on the cabinet door, furrowing his eyebrows at him. “I’m getting a glass of water?” 

Theon smiles weakly. “Right,” he says, and flees.

*

Growing up, Jon was a funny-looking kid. His face was too long, his brow too somber, and his hair grew out into a hilarious, triangular mass of curls. He never seemed to know what to do with his limbs; he always held himself uncomfortably, hunched over like he was apologizing for his existence. Plus he was awkward, sweaty, and his voice cracked every other sentence. Theon had taken great delight in doing impressions of him whenever the opportunity arose, and inventing opportunities whenever he could. 

And then, very abruptly, Jon got hot. He joined the track team, where he filled out a little and learned how to stand without slouching. Then he got a decent haircut so he didn't have the massive curl pyramid. To top it all off, his weird horse face stopped being weird or horsey at all, instead just being kind of pretty. 

Theon didn’t really know what to make of Jon’s transformation from ‘not much to look at’ to ‘very very easy on the eyes.’ It didn’t seem right or fair or natural, considering... _Jon_. So Theon spent a while pretending it didn't happen, that Jon was still weird-looking as well as a surly, sour, self-righteous little bastard. Except as time went on, not only did it not go away, Jon got _hotter_ , which made it significantly harder to ignore. 

Plus to make matters worse, Jon doesn’t even take advantage of being sort of beautiful—he still makes those faces like he sucked on a lemon or stepped in something foul, and whenever girls smile at him he doesn't do anything except stare uncomfortably at the floor. Theon has a vague memory of being drunk and outraged and ranting at Robb about it. He went on and on about how unfair it was that Jon was so pretty because “he _fucking_ wastes it!”, while Robb, also drunk, patting Theon consolingly on the arm. 

Theon’s still pretending that didn’t happen. That, though, that was the point when he figured instead of being angry about Jon being hot, he'd give Jon shit about being way too pretty.

That made it a lot easier to deal with. Jon being hot is weird, sure, but Theon knows how to rub Jon’s face in stuff. He’s great at it. He’s had years of practice. Jon's an easy target, and his pissy glares are always hilarious, so it seemed as good a strategy as any. 

All in all, Theon’d thought he’d had the whole coping thing down pretty well, up until his dick was actually in Jon's mouth. 

Maybe he should try being in denial again.


	3. Robb Is Not As Helpful As He Thinks He Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb has good intentions and Theon has a Jon crisis.

Robb’s oblivious a lot of the time, which Theon’s thankful for on a day-to-day basis, but it's hard not to notice someone jumping guiltily every time you enter the room. 

The inevitable question comes when Theon’s at the kitchen table. He's staring unseeingly at his textbook, trying unscramble his brain and focus on the material, when Robb comes in. Theon jumps, his fight or flight reflex kicking into overdrive; he's tense, ready to bolt, his eyes flicking wildly all over the kitchen for an escape, until he realizes how much he's failing to act like a normal human person. Scrambling for his dignity, Theon clears his throat, coughs, and flips through his textbook in a pathetic farce of nonchalance, waiting for his heart to stop imitating a battering ram.

When Theon glances up furtively, Robb’s watching him. Averting his eyes, Theon coughs again, twisting his hands in the fabric of his shirt.

“You’ve been acting weird lately,” Robb says finally. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Theon quickly. 

He winces. He’s got a reflex where he automatically denies everything when questioned, including sometimes when there’s no way he could get away with it and then has to pretend like he was joking to avoid losing face. 

This isn’t one of those times, though; Robb just shrugs, says “alright,” gets his Disney princess cereal out of the cabinet and pours himself a huge bowl. 

“Why do you still eat that shit?” Theon says, mostly out of habit. “You’re like five years old.” 

“Food tastes better when it’s shapes,” Robb says serenely, mouth stuffed with corn flakes and tiny pink marshmallows. “Look, it’s Cinderella.” 

He opens wide, giving Theon an eyeful of half-chewed cereal. 

Theon recoils. “Shut your mouth. You’re disgusting,” he says.

Robb beams at him, completely unrepentant, and says, “I thought you _liked_ see food,” which is a joke he’s made roughly a thousand times in the last thirteen years.

Theon stares at him, letting all his disgust show on his face. Robb stares back with a straight face, which he manages to hold for about five seconds before throwing his head back and guffawing. 

Groaning, Theon flops forward to rest his head against the table. "Why am I friends with you again?" 

"I'm charming," says Robb. 

Theon makes a disbelieving noise. Robb snorts in response and takes another huge bite of his nasty sugar cereal. Quiet settles over them, Robb devouring his cereal and Theon slumped over the table, fidgeting. 

Normally, when Theon has a problem, he talks to Robb. Robb's terrible at advice but good at sympathy, and he always manages to make Theon feel like less of a fuckup. Theon could use that right now. Before Robb came in, Theon's brain was stuck on a loop of Jon, Jon, Jon: Jon's fucking mouth and Jon's fucking tongue and Jon's fucking... the entire rest of Jon. The whole fucking mess of Jon. Theon wonders if talks about it, it might help him stop _thinking_ about it. 

“So, hypothetically,” Theon says, “if someone you couldn’t stand really wanted to blow you, what would you do?” 

Robb looks up, having just shoveled a huge spoonful of cereal into his mouth. “Uh,” he says, without bothering to swallow his food first. 

“Okay, I mean, yeah,” says Theon, waving a hand dismissively. “But what if they give really, _really_ good head.” 

Robb mulls that one over, chewing thoughtfully. After a minute, he swallows and says, “How good are we talking, here?” 

“Fucking _life changing_ ,” Theon says reverently. 

Just then, the apartment door opens. Jon walks in, shrugging off his shitty hipster peacoat as he crosses the kitchen. Theon freezes.

“Hey,” Jon says absently, grabbing the kettle from under the sink. “What’s life-changing?” 

“The head Theon’s been getting, apparently,” says Robb, and Jon trips, fumbles the kettle, and starts choking on his own spit. 

At any other time, in any other situation, Jon busting his shit would make Theon's day, but right now he’s _fucking mortified_ , staring in abject horror. Robb leaps up, asking in alarm if Jon’s alright, making like he's about to do the Heimlich, and Jon’s trying to wave him off while being unable to talk. Theon's frozen by the spectacle for a long moment, and then, before he knows what he's doing, he's booking it out their front door. 

He’s a block away before he realizes it’s snowing and he left without his coat. 

* 

Theon spends the next hour and a half in a student café, skulking around miserably without buying anything. He figures he doesn't have to hide out that long, since Robb has class soon; it seems unlikely that Jon will risk embarrassment to confront him. Theon dallies until he's absolutely sure Robb is at class, and then he starts making his way back to the apartment. 

The second Theon closes the door against the biting cold, Jon melts out of the shadows to descend upon him; apparently Theon was wrong about Jon avoiding embarrassment. With the way Jon corners him, Theon's almost certain he had been lying in wait. 

“Why would you tell Robb? Ever?” Jon hisses. 

“Easy, Snow,” Theon says, nice and condescending. “I didn’t tell him _who_ , just someone. He probably thinks it’s some girl—” 

Jon shakes his head. “He’s going to figure it out.” 

“This is Robb we’re talking about, here,” Theon points out. “He thought _Renly Baratheon_ was straight.” 

“He _knows_ you’re not straight,” Jon says. 

“Yeah, and he knows you’re bisexual—”

“Pansexual.” 

“Whatever,” Theon says, waving a hand. “My point is, he’s not jumping to any conclusions because we both fuck dudes.” 

“He’s _going_ to figure it out,” says Jon. 

"No, he won’t," Theon says. "Not unless he walked in on us while you were sucking me off. Which, by the way, I thought we weren’t doing anymore." 

Scowling, Jon looks away. "I don’t remember you complaining." 

"I'm just saying, if we don't do it anymore, Robb will never find out," Theon says. "So if we're worrying he's going to, are we admitting we're still doing it?" 

Jon's eyes flick to Theon's, and then he sighs. "Look, let's—we’ll talk about this later, okay?" 

_What's to talk about,_ Theon thinks, bemused. _Either we are, or we aren’t._ Instead of asking, though, he shrugs. "Have it your way."

*

They don’t talk about it later. Jon’s conveniently absent for the rest of the week and, that weekend, they go visit the Starks, because Robb misses his girlfriend, his mother, and his dog, not necessarily in that order. At the Starks's, Jon’s even more absent, out with the Tarly kid and their gaggle of weird friends, including Jon’s on-again-off-again girlfriend. The girlfriend thing doesn’t bother Theon, Theon decides, and aggressively ignores any evidence to the contrary. 

They’re back at their flat on Sunday afternoon, though, and when Theon goes to the kitchen to make Easy Mac, Jon and Robb are there in the middle of an argument. 

They don’t even notice Theon coming in, too engrossed. Robb looks earnest and hasn’t raised his voice, but Jon’s standing back with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression is dark and clouded. Theon, tensing, stills in the doorway to watch, and intervene if necessary. Robb and Jon love each other and normally get along, but their fights can get nasty. 

“I’m just saying,” Robb says. “You’d be happier studying music.” 

Jon’s face twists bitterly. “I have to pay off tuition.” 

“You could make it work,” says Robb, waving his hand dismissively. “You love it. You deserve to be happy.” 

“Do you realize how you sound right now?” Jon asks. “Even _with_ the scholarship and waiting tables, I’m fucked if I don’t get a decent job after graduation.” 

“But you _will_ ,” Robb insists. “And you’ve been saving since high school.”

“It still won’t pay for it,” Jon says flatly.

“You could—” 

Theon’s had enough.

“Come on, Robb,” he interrupts. "Is it really so hard to believe that _following your dreams_ isn’t exactly a reality for most people?"

Robb whirls around to face Theon, an almost comical look of betrayal on his face. His mouth opens and closes for a moment and then, seemingly getting ahold of himself, he clenches his jaw and shakes his head.

“Fine,” Robb snaps. “Fine! _Be_ miserable. Both of you.” 

Then Robb turns on his heel and stomps off, muttering under his breath. Theon watches him leave, his mouth puckering. Robb will forget about the argument before long—he’ll still be convinced he was right, with his stubborn, myopic optimism, but his bursts of temper tend to be short. He'll be back to puttering around the apartment cheerfully within the hour. Exhaling, Theon turns to leave the kitchen, but when he looks up, Jon is staring at him, a peculiar expression on his face.

"What," says Theon flatly. 

"I didn't expect you to side with me," says Jon. 

"I didn't side with anyone," Theon says warily. He doesn't like this conversation. He would very much like for it to be over. "You were just right. For once." 

Jon's watching him, expression inscrutable. "You thought I was _right._ " 

“That's what I said,” Theon says, trying to make this less uncomfortable, bring it back to familiar grounds. “Did you start going deaf, in addition to looking like a fucking horse? You know, you’ve got that—” he gestures at Jon’s face, trying to pinpoint a feature he thinks is horselike, and realizes, to his horror, that he can’t find one. 

Because, yeah, Jon used to be unfortunate-looking, but he isn’t anymore and hasn’t been for a long while. He’s got those huge eyes with ridiculous eyelashes and his cheekbones are—and his jaw—and his _mouth_ , which has been featuring in Theon’s thoughts lately more than he’s strictly comfortable with.

Theon realizes he’s staring, having trailed off in the middle of the sentence, and Jon's giving him a weird look. It should be enough to snap Theon back to reality, but horrifyingly, the scrunched up face isn’t funny, at all. It’s just. Hot. 

Theon points at Jon with as much dignity as he can muster and says, “Horse face,” before turning and walks out of the room. 

So much for denial.

**

Hours later, Jon’s still preoccupied with Theon stepping in with Jon’s argument with Robb. Even _with_ Theon’s odd little aborted insult afterwards, Jon can’t make sense of it. 

It’s not like Theon to flub an insult. Now that Jon's thinking about it, he can't even remember the last time Theon tried to rub his face in something. Theon hasn't even said anything rude or cruel about Jon sucking his cock, which, granted, Jon's been chalking up to Theon wanting to get more head. But now, strangest of all, Theon sided with Jon against Robb. 

Jon has no idea where it came from. Civility between them isn’t completely unprecedented, but mostly they don't bother, aside from cursory attempts on Robb’s behest and temporary truces. When Robb asked, they would try, but that never lasted long, and their temporary truces were strained at best. 

Except there was one time Jon can remember where they’d almost gotten along. 

It was a strained truces for a Stark family dinner where Theon and Jon were off to the side, not-belonging together. Family events with the Starks made up the majority of their truces. Going to the Starks’ for holidays is better for Theon than staying at home, but he’s not really _welcomed_ at the Starks’ either. Jon’s more or less in the same boat; he sticks out like a wart, the one blemish on a perfect family, and it’s never more obvious than at family dinners.

So Jon and Theon sometimes, rarely, took refuge in each other. Not talking, mostly, not even really getting along. But by mutual agreement, they stopped actively trying to piss each other off, avoided taking cheap shots. Mostly, they only stood together in silence, usually smoking outside once the heavy atmosphere of togetherness got to be too much. Even though they disliked each other, it helped to bask in being bitter and unwanted together. 

But this one time, they’d been leaning against the side of the house as the Starks milled about on the patio. Theon had scoff-laughed, watching the family circus, and started imitating them.

“Ooh, look at me, I have a happy and stable family environment,” Theon said, sing-song and mocking, in time with Sansa happily gabbering to Robb.

“Is that supposed to be Sansa?” Jon said skeptically. 

“I’m pretty sure that’s what they’re talking about,” Theon said. “And now Robb’s like, ‘Oh, you’re well-adjusted? What a coincidence! I’m well-adjusted too!’” 

Jon huffed a laugh, and then tried covering it up with a cough. “That’s not funny,” he said, but with the way Theon grinned at him, he could tell it was weak and unconvincing. 

Apparently encouraged, Theon pointed over to Arya and Ned, sitting together on the deck chairs. “She’s talking to him about how great it is to have two loving parents.” 

It did kind of look like she was saying that, especially when Ned smiled benevolently and put his hand on her shoulder. Theon and Jon both snorted at that, glanced at each other, and then looked away.

They were quiet for a minute, watching the happy Starks enjoying each other’s company and, presumably, basking in being loved and wanted and accepted. 

“You think Robb is telling Mrs. Stark about how much he enjoys their normative mother-son relationship?” Jon said, nodding towards where Robb and Catelyn are speaking very earnestly, and Theon let out a bark of delighted laughter. 

The rest of the holiday went by strangely pleasantly and, for once after a Stark-family-holiday, Jon didn’t go to bed feeling lonely and horribly out of place. The next day, Theon went right back to being an asshole—he literally stuck his foot out for Jon to trip over—and Jon forgot about how they kind of got along. 

Now, though. Now Jon wonders what it meant. If it meant anything at all. 

**

Theon paces until he gives up on pacing, trying to find something, anything, to keep him from thinking about Jon. Nothing’s working. His thoughts keep reverting back to Jon, Jon’s mouth, Jon’s face when Theon told Robb off. Groaning, Theon puts his head in his hands, remembering when the only time he cared about Jon's face was right after he shoved Jon in the mud. 

Maybe it’s not that big of a change. He just went from shoving Jon’s face in the mud to shoving Jon’s face on his dick. 

Funny how things turn out sometimes.


	4. Jon is (Sometimes) Insensitive and Theon is (Always) Delicate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon attempts to reciprocate. It doesn't go as planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Unfortunately, the next update will probably be in about a month. In the meantime, I have some other fic (no Jon/Theon, though, sorry) that I’ve been delaying posting while publishing chapters of this; while I write the next chapter I might post those fics, if you’re interested.
> 
> Warning for an offhand mention of marijuana use.

Slumping at his desk, Jon flicks on the lamp with a groan. There are a dozen things he’d rather be doing than studying for biology, but there’s a test tomorrow on all the material they’ve covered so far and last night Jon realized he barely remembers any of it. He crammed until about five AM, caught four hours of sleep before his morning class, and now he’s back at home trying to convince himself to go through definitions. Sighing, Jon flicks through his textbook, writing down words to look up in the glossary. He’s listing the stages of mitosis in his notebook when the door opens. 

Jon looks up and, to his surprise, Theon’s hovering in the doorway. _What could he possibly want,_ Jon wonders, suppressing an eyebrow raise. There’s no real point asking—Theon rarely gives a straight answer to Jon’s questions—so Jon nods at him absently and turns back to his textbook. 

Theon, apparently taking Jon’s nod as an invitation, crosses Jon’s room to the window. Jon bites his tongue on a sharp comment. It’s a little irritating that Theon came in without knocking while Jon was trying to study, but Jon’s not interested in resparking their rivalry. _He’ll leave soon enough,_ Jon tells himself. 

Jon looks back down at his notebook, trying not to wonder what Theon wants. Biology is the important thing here. Mitosis. Cellular reproduction. Chromosomes. Much more interesting than whatever Theon has to say. 

It doesn’t help his concentration that Theon’s drumming his fingers on the windowsill. Jon tries to ignore it, but the relentless tapping seems to get louder the longer it goes on. 

Giving up, Jon glances at Theon, who flicks his eyes from Jon to the window and back. 

“So…” Theon says finally. “Why me?” 

_Oh,_ Jon thinks. _So that’s what this is about._ It makes sense, in a way. It’s actually surprising Theon took this long to ask. 

Jon shrugs, putting down his pen. “I don’t exactly have a line of people begging me to suck them off." 

An expression crosses Theon’s face that Jon can't quite read, but it fades quickly. He shrugs. “Fair enough.” 

Theon looks back out the window. Jon raises his eyebrows. Theon doesn’t appear to be leaving, which must mean there’s more on his mind. Again, Jon’s tempted to ask him to hurry up, but it’ll still get him nowhere; most likely, Theon would stomp out instead of asking whatever he wants to ask, and then Jon would be left wondering what he wanted to say. That would probably be more unproductive in the long run than this little standoff. 

In the quiet while waiting for Theon to speak, Jon starts leafing through his textbook again. Bored of listing words, he flips to the glossary to scribble paraphrased definitions, thinking idly that his messy notes would make Sam, with his perfect colorcoded charts, cry. 

By the time Theon speaks up again, Jon has almost forgotten that he’s there. 

“So… why do you keep…” Theon says. “What do you even _get_ out of this?” 

Jon chokes. “Excuse me?” 

“Don’t give me that horseshit, Snow,” Theon says impatiently. “It’s obviously something you’re into. Unless it’s that my cock is perfect and you can’t get enough of it—” 

“Oh my _God,_ shut up,” Jon says. “No, it’s—do you really want to know?” 

It comes out more insecure-sounding than Jon meant it to. He used to be ashamed of fantasizing about doing it; he still has a bad reaction to the word 'cocksucker' being used as an insult. He's more-or-less okay with it now, but he doesn't want to open himself up to mockery. 

Theon comes away from the window, and, fidgeting, leans against Jon’s desk. “Asked, didn’t I?” 

Jon bites lip. There’s a good chance Theon’s only asking to make fun of him, but it’s a fair question. Theon probably deserves to know, given how many times Jon’s sucked him off. Jon taps his pen against his notebook, considering. It’s not something he’s ever talked about before; it’s surprisingly difficult to put into words. 

“It’s… overwhelming,” Jon says finally. “Becomes all you can taste, and smell, and feel, and everything comes down to just doing it. 

“You don’t think about anything else, just the weight in your mouth and the hands in your hair and what you have to do to make someone come apart. And you feel it when that happens—their thighs shake, they pull your hair, and the _sounds_...” 

He trails off, realizing he’d lost track of himself, and glances back at Theon. He’s leaning towards Jon, eyes glazed over, staring blatantly at his mouth. 

“That’s. Great. Thank you for sharing,” Theon says faintly. “Please blow me again.” 

Jon’s lips quirk up. Theon’s desperation is unusual; it’s flattering, almost endearing. Theon licks his lips—and leans in, which is unexpected, but Jon doesn’t stop him, even angles himself a little to give Theon better access to his mouth. 

Theon’s fingers curl on Jon’s jaw as he brings their lips together, surprisingly gently. His lips are soft—not at all chapped—and warm. Jon tilts his head, leaning into the the kiss. It turns the careful brush of Theon’s lips against Jon’s warmer and wetter, their mouths parting and slipping against each other. Jon can smell Theon, can almost taste him, can feel the gentle breaths from his nose. Jon closes his eyes, opening his mouth the slightest bit wider against Theon's, and drifts closer.

Theon’s thumb rubs across Jon's cheekbone once, then twice, and then Theon’s hand is gone and Theon breaks the kiss slowly, leaning back and searching Jon's face. 

“Huh,” Jon says absently as they part. 

“What,” says Theon warily. 

“Nothing,” Jon says, touching his lips experimentally. “I just didn’t expect you to be so good at that.” 

“You didn’t expect—?” 

Jon shrugs. Growing up, he'd sometimes wondered how Theon managed to charm so many girls into his bed. Nothing Jon could see suggested Theon had any particular talents in the bedroom. At best, Jon figured Theon would be a selfish lover and nothing in their time together has contradicted that. Theon’s never attempted to even reciprocate. Not that Jon minds; Theon seems like the type to give a half-hearted handjob without once looking you in the eye. 

Theon's staring at him. “Is that why you never tried to kiss me?” he asks. 

“You never tried to kiss me either,” Jon points out. 

“I—” 

“You seemed like you would lead with tongue,” Jon adds, an afterthought. 

Jon looks down at his textbook again. He should really go back to studying. It'd probably be better to spend his time on that than sex. He glances up to say so and finds Theon still staring at him 

“Is that—" Theon starts, then wets his lips and continues, "Is that why you never asked me to get you off?” 

Jon shrugs again. “More or less.” 

“What does _that_ mean.”

“I thought you’d freak out or half-ass it,” Jon clarifies. “Doing it myself seemed easier.” 

“You,” Theon starts, then open and closes his mouth, as though he's got something else to say. 

Jon waits, raising his eyebrows quizzically. 

Theon makes a face. “So then you just, what, you deign to suck my cock because…?” 

“Well,” Jon says, “you were there.” 

Despite Theon’s comment earlier, it's not like his dick is anything special. Mostly Theon's just available, clean, and keeps his pubic hair neatly trimmed. Jon doesn’t like going down on people who _don't_ — 

Jon looks back down at his textbook. He really should study. He can probably blow Theon another time when he doesn't have a test looming over his head. It’s not like Theon’s particularly difficult to get into bed. 

He flips back to the page he was on, and then looks back up. Theon's still staring at him. 

“Did you still want me to blow you?” Jon asks. “I thought the mood was dead, and I really have to study, so.” 

“No. I,” Theon says. “No. I was just leaving.” 

*

“Aww,” says Robb, coming into their living room, seeing Theon curled up on the couch with his face in his arms. “What’s wrong, champ?” 

“Up yours, Stark,” says Theon, not lifting his head up from where it’s buried in the crook of his elbow. 

“You wish, Greyjoy,” says Robb cheerfully. 

Robb plonks down on the couch next to him and turns on the TV to flip aimlessly through the channels. Theon catches snippets of _Frasier_ and _Spongebob_ and news and _That 70s Show_. Then there’s dialogue from _The Princess Bride_ , and Robb stops there with a delighted _aww, dude._

Theon snorts, still hiding his head in the protective cradle of his arms. Robb pretends not to hear him, putting the remote down (firmly out of Theon’s reach) and settling back onto the couch. _You would,_ Theon thinks, but doesn’t make a move to get up and leave. 

They sit in comfortable quiet for a while, Theon peeking up from his huddle to half-heartedly watch the movie, Robb mouthing along with the lines. Slowly, Theon unwinds himself into a less compact slump. 

“Do you think I seem like a bad kisser?” Theon asks abruptly. 

Robb purses his lips. “You know, I can’t say I’ve given it that much thought.” 

Theon winces a little. He walked right into that one, but. Old wounds and all. He's over Robb, inasmuch as you ever get over your first love, but it still stings that Robb never knew about the years Theon spent pining.

It's easy not to get caught up in a reverie, though, because half a moment later, Robb speaks up again. 

“Why d'you ask?” 

“No reason,” Theon says, slumping. “Just something someone said.” 

“Mm,” says Robb, turning back to the TV, where Cary Elwes is tricking Wallace Shawn into drinking the poisoned wine. 

Then: 

“Wait,” says Robb, sitting up straight and muting the TV. “Is this about the girl who gives life-changing blowjobs?” 

Theon groans. 

“She said you’re a bad kisser?” Robb says. “Life-changing blowjobs girl thinks you’re a bad kisser?” 

“No!” Theon says, pushing himself up. “We didn’t kiss until _today_.”

“And then she said you’re a bad kisser?” 

“That I _seemed_ like I’d be a bad kisser, and that’s why we hadn’t before,” Theon clarifies. 

“That’s harsh,” says Robb. 

“Yeah,” says Theon, feelingly. 

“Plus I mean,” Robb says, “if you’ve been getting her off, and you’re not terrible at that, why would she just assume you’re a bad kisser?” 

Theon coughs, looking away. “That’s not exactly—” 

“Oh my God,” Robb interrupts, scandalized. “You haven’t gotten her off?” 

“One of us always left right after the blowjob,” says Theon defensively. 

“That— _Theon!_ ” Robb says reprovingly. “How many times has she blown you now? And it never occurred to you to return the favor?” 

“Apparently I seem like I’d be bad at that too,” Theon mutters. 

“You—” Robb says, and then stops. 

Theon glances over. 

“That. I mean. That’s,” Robb starts, and a laugh bubbles up. “She said that. She said she thinks you’d be bad at getting her off.” 

Theon glares at him, but Robb doesn’t even see it; he’s propping up his head in his hand, shaking with silent laughter.

“Robb, I swear to God,” Theon says. 

“No, I mean,” Robb says, clearly trying not to laugh. “No, I’m sorry, this must be—” he gives up, breaking off into giggles. “Did she think you didn’t know where the clit was?” 

Theon shoves Robb off the couch. Robb, who has about twice Theon’s muscle mass, lets him do it, only to keep cackling from his new place on the floor. 

“Yeah, it’s _hilarious,_ ” Theon says. “Thank you so much for laughing at my expense. Fuckass.” 

He pushes himself up off the couch and storms out, stepping on Robb’s solar plexus on the way. 

When Robb gets his breath back, he calls after him, “At least I don’t seem like a bad lay,” and when Theon flips him the bird, Robb only laughs harder, the little shit. 

*

All his life, Theon’s been called fuckup, slacker, stoner, no-good Greyjoy gutter trash and worse. He’s been laughing it off almost as long. Being thought of as bad in bed—by Jon, no less—shouldn’t get under his skin this much.

It’s just that if there’s anything that Theon’s really good at, it’s sex. At least _fuckup_ and _gutter trash_ are more or less true. But sex—Theon can make someone feel like the only person in the world. He can make someone tremble just with a kiss. He can figure out where to touch and how just by listening to changes in someone’s breathing. And Jon fucking Snow thinks he’s a disaster in bed. 

When it becomes clear that he can’t shake it off, Theon stews. He stews and paces and grumbles under his breath until occurs to him that what he wants, more than anything else, is to prove Jon wrong. 

By the time Theon goes into Jon’s room to do so, Jon’s already asleep. 

Theon climbs up onto Jon’s bed, prodding impatiently at the Jon-lump until it shifts around and Jon’s face emerges, blinking fuzzily.

“Theon?” Jon mumbles, lifting up his head a little. 

“Listen, fucker,” Theon hisses. “I could totally get you off. You’d fucking _love_ it if I got you off.” 

Maybe it’s the dim light, or the way Jon’s sleepy face is all scrunched up, but to Theon he looks skeptical. 

“I’ll _prove_ it to you,” Theon insists. He still doesn’t know why this is such a big deal, but. Goddammit. It’s been bothering him all day. 

Jon yawns. “Yeah, alright,” he says sleepily. “Go for it.” 

He pushes the covers back down to give Theon access, wiggling his hips unsexily to get out of his sweatpants. 

Theon stares. "It's kind of offensive how underwhelmed you are," he says flatly. 

"What am I supposed to be impressed by, exactly?" asks Jon, blinking sleep out of his eyes.

That stings, but Theon’s determined not to show how much. It also reminds him that he doesn’t know what Jon likes in bed, aside from. Giving blowjobs. And having his hair pulled. Well, that’s never stopped him before; he can figure it out as he goes. It’s what he’s _good_ at. 

Theon leans down to kiss Jon, but before he closes the distance between them, he hesitates, thinking again about Jon saying he seemed like a bad kisser. But he was saying that Theon _wasn’t_ , though, so why does it matter? Still, Theon falters, uncertainty lingering like a cough in his chest.

But then Jon’s mouth parts the slightest bit and he tilts his chin tilting up and up until his lips almost brush Theon’s, and Theon finds the nerve to lean down to meet him. 

Jon makes a soft little _mmf_ sound into the kiss, his hands coming up slowly to Theon’s waist. 

Encouraged, Theon pushes his hand between their bodies to cup Jon’s cock. Jon’s not hard, but there’s a satisfying twitch of interest at Theon’s touch. Theon smiles. He kisses down from Jon’s mouth to his chin to his jaw and nibbles lightly. Jon doesn’t moan—or make much noise at all—but he relaxes under the touch and spreads himself out for Theon, which Theon takes as a good sign. 

He kisses down the column of Jon’s throat until he reaches the collar of Jon’s t-shirt. Licking his lips, he tugs at the hem, and Jon obligingly shifts so Theon can pull his shirt off. Theon drops it on the bed and curses himself for not thinking to turn the light on. It’s too dim to get a decent look at Jon’s chest, which is bullshit; he used to sneak glances whenever the Starks went swimming, and now that he can actually look his fill, he can barely see anything. 

_Another time,_ Theon thinks, except he doesn’t know if there _will_ be another time, if Jon will want Theon to see him naked at all. If they’ll do anything remotely like this again. If Jon will go back to just blowing Theon, or to never touching each other at all. 

Theon pushes down the unpleasant squirmy feeling that gives him and leans in to kiss Jon’s collarbone. 

Jon sighs, slow and soft, relaxing even more beneath him. Theon traces a light, teasing pathway down his chest with his fingertips. He follows it with his mouth, dragging lower and lower to the dark shadow of hair below his bellybutton.

He nuzzles his way down, trying to picture Jon’s body based on what he can feel and what little he can make out in the dark. He drags his nails lightly up Jon’s inner thighs, gradually increasing pressure until he reaches Jon’s hips. Then he wraps his hand around Jon’s cock and finds, to his dismay, Jon’s still barely hard at all. 

“Snow?” Theon says. “Jon—?” 

He’s cut off with a long, quiet snore. 

Jon’s fallen back asleep. 

Theon stares at him, frozen for a long moment in outrage. Then he gives Jon’s shoulder a rough shove, and another, and then a third before Jon opens his eyes to squint at him. 

“Mmmmrhgl,” says Jon. 

“Don’t you fucking—” Theon says. He grits his teeth. “You fell _asleep_?” 

“Sorry,” Jon says through a huge, jaw-cracking yawn. “I didn’t get much sleep last night, I was cramming.”

“You—" Theon says.“You didn’t think you could, oh, I don’t know, say that ahead of time?” 

“Sorry,” Jon says again. He doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds half-asleep. 

“So am I taking this to mean you want a rain check?” snarls Theon. 

“Yeah,” Jon says, eyes already slipping closed. “Another time.” 

Jon pulls the blanket back up, as much as he can with Theon still kneeling between his legs, snuggling in and burying his face in his pillow. Theon opens his mouth to say he _wasn’t actually offering a rain check_ , but Jon’s practically asleep, and the pointlessness of waking Jon up _again_ just to yell at him is swamping. 

Tail between his legs, Theon gets up off of the bed and slouches out the door. 

**

The next morning, Jon leaves bio class cautiously optimistic about the test. He won’t get his grade back for a while, but he still feels comfortable chalking up a success to procrastination and cramming. Eat your heart out, time management. He feels justified in blowing everything off for the afternoon. With no plans, he could finally play _Portal_ (or, more likely, start a new playthrough of _Mass Effect_ ) or catch up on _Orange is the New Black_ or, a little voice in the back of his mind murmurs, he could see if Theon’s up for fooling around. 

Apprehension nestles in Jon’s gut. He barely remembers anything about Theon’s late-night visit other than that it happened. Jon was sure Theon would give him shit about how he couldn’t get it up—it seems like the kind of thing Theon would have a field day with—but strangely, Theon hasn’t said anything at all. Theon doesn’t usually bide his time with ammunition like this, which makes Jon suspect that Theon’s not planning to bring it up at all. Like how Theon's never tried making fun of Jon's thing for giving head.

There’s more to Theon than a snob and a bully. Jon’s been peripherally aware of it for years now. For the most part, he's ignored it. Disliking Theon was easy and cathartic; Jon saw no reason to stop, although admittedly he didn’t look for one particularly hard. Besides, Theon barely gave him the time of day, and there’s no point trying to understand someone who won’t extend you the same courtesy. 

That’s not really true anymore. Over the last few days Theon has sided with Jon against Robb, sought out his attention specifically, and asked him to explain his perspective. Jon has no excuse not to give Theon a chance and, for once, he doesn’t think he wants one. 

Deliberately approaching Theon’s room is nerve-wracking. All of their encounters until yesterday had been by chance. _He sought me out,_ Jon reminds himself. And he turned Theon down both times, by virtue of being too busy and too tired; surely it’s his turn now. 

Biting his lip, Jon knocks on Theon’s door. 

There’s no response for long enough that Jon wonders if Theon heard, if Theon’s even there, if Theon’s asleep or ignoring him or busy. Then the door opens a sliver, and Theon meets Jon’s eyes, and Theon pushes the door open wider.

The lights are off in Theon’s room, the only light filtering in dimly through the blinds on the windows. Theon has bags under his eyes and his hair less ‘artfully tousled’ and more ‘utter disaster,’ which is unusual enough that Jon blinks in surprise.

“Snow,” Theon says coolly. 

“Theon,” says Jon. “Were you asleep?” 

“No,” says Theon. He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Did you want something?” 

“Yes, actually,” Jon says. He hesitates. He’s not brazen enough to say he came to hook up. “We didn’t really get a chance to talk the other day when I was studying.” 

“I’m busy,” says Theon.

“Are you?” Jon asks, looking past Theon into his room. “Do you have homework or something?” 

“No,” Theon says. 

“Then what—?” 

“Maybe I just don’t feel like talking,” says Theon.

“Oh,” says Jon. “Well… to be completely honest, I didn’t come here to talk, either.” 

He steps forward, ducking his head, and hooks his forefingers through Theon’s belt loops. He can’t quite make himself meet Theon’s eyes evenly, so instead he peeks up through his eyelashes. There’s a dazed look on Theon’s face, his eyes wide and his mouth fallen slightly open.

“Did you still want that rain check?” Jon asks quietly.

“I—” Theon starts, and then he steps back abruptly out of reach. 

Jon startles back, blinking. 

“No,” Theon says, looking over Jon’s shoulder instead of meeting his eyes. “No, not—not right now.” 

“Oh,” Jon says. “Okay.” 

Still avoiding Jon’s eyes, Theon clenches his jaw and nods. 

“Are you…” Jon wets his lips, heart thudding. “Does this mean… Do you want to stop, like…completely?” 

“No,” says Theon immediately, and then, more calmly, he says, “No. Another time.” 

“Okay,” Jon says. “I guess I’ll… see you later, then.” 

Jon backs up. Theon opens his mouth as if to say something and shuts it again. Then he closes the door.

For a long moment, Jon stares after him in confusion. Then, rubbing his temples, he retreats back to his room. 

*

Jon’s brain gets stuck whirring, replaying the conversation over and over along with loud. After ten minutes of that intermixed with loud static and question marks, Jon gives up and tries to immerse himself in video games. Shooting alien robots is a relief, distracting him up until he gets to a hard battle where he keeps dying again and again. Finally, groaning, Jon gives up and lies down on his bed.

It’s hard to tell exactly how Theon was feeling. Annoyed, maybe? Is annoyance enough to make Theon turn down sex? Theon could have been angry, but Theon’s been angry at Jon before, and normally he’s a lot more overt about it. 

_Maybe he’s not angry at me,_ Jon thinks. But if Theon was angry at someone else would he have still turned Jon down?

Jon squeezes his eyes closed tightly. If it was something he did, he doesn’t know what it was. He did fall asleep on Theon last night, which might have been annoying if Theon had been in the mood to fool around, but it’s hardly worth getting angry over.

Maybe it was just because it was the first time Theon tried reciprocating. Jon snorts. If anyone should be upset about that, surely it’s Jon. Although… Jon can’t remember why Theon came to him. He strains to think back. Theon had been weirdly accusatory at first, and then turned weirdly shy. Jon remembers thinking about how Theon was a surprisingly good kisser. 

Which Jon told Theon. Jon winces. _I told him he was good at it,_ he thinks defensively, but even as he does, it’s dawning on him that it couldn’t have meant as much since, immediately after, Jon told him that he thought Theon would be selfish in bed. 

Okay, it must have sounded bad, much worse than Jon meant it to. But Theon can’t be _that_ upset about it. He can’t possibly care about Jon’s opinion that much. He never has before.

Except Jon was just thinking that morning about how lately Theon seems a lot more interested in what Jon has to say.

Shit.

Maybe it was just mild irritation. Maybe Theon wasn’t in the mood. Maybe Theon wasn’t upset with Jon at all. There are a dozen excuses Jon wants to believe. Better yet, he wants to not care and go back to his game. 

Jon glances over at his TV, where _Mass Effect’s_ game over screen is still prompting him to load his last save. He groans. There’s no way. He has to know for sure if Theon’s angry with him or he won’t get any peace. Asking Theon is out of the question, obviously, so… that leaves Robb.

When Jon slumps down the hallway, the door to Robb’s room is open. Robb’s spinning idly in his chair, ignoring the piles of books and papers on his desk to play _Pokémon_ on his DS. 

“Hey, Jon,” says Robb. 

“Hey,” Jon says, sitting heavily on Robb’s bed. 

Robb glances up from his game. “‘Sup?” 

Jon shrugs, and Robb grins at him before going back to _Pokémon_. Flopping backwards, Jon stares up at Robb’s ceiling. Back when he and Robb still shared a room, they’d had a phase where they both wanted to be astronauts, and Mrs. Stark helped Robb put glow-in-the-dark stars on their ceiling. When Robb brought Theon over for the first time, Theon laughed and said they were childish, and Robb scraped all the stars off that night. It made Jon furious, for reasons Jon can’t quite remember. Dad converted the basement into a room for Jon not long after, anyway. 

“Do you remember when we had those stars up in your room?” Jon says. “And Theon made fun of you and you took them down?” 

Robb laughs. “You were so pissed.” 

“I _was,_ ” Jon says. “Not sure why.” 

“‘Cause it was Theon’s fault,” Robb says. 

_Oh,_ Jon thinks. _Yeah, that probably sums it up._ Guilt squirms in his belly. He doesn’t want to think about how often he got unreasonably angry at Theon just to have a target for his adolescent rage.

Well, since they’re on the topic of Theon now anyway… 

“Has Theon seemed… off to you lately?” Jon asks.

“Come to think of it, yeah,” says Robb thoughtfully, looking up again. “This morning he was lying on his bedroom floor playing a song by that band you like on his guitar.”

“What band?” Jon asks.

“Uhhhh,” says Robb. “Sad guy. With the hair. Meat is murder.” 

“Morrissey?” Jon asks, his heart sinking. “The Smiths?” 

“That’s it!” Robb says triumphantly. “We smoked up afterwards, though, and he played me Dolly Parton songs.” 

“That’s… that’s great, Robb,” says Jon, distracted. 

Theon isn’t angry. He’s _upset_. Jon’s absent-minded insensitivity the other day actually hurt his feelings. What’s more, it bothers Jon that it did. He’s only ever felt the slightest amount of guilt for upsetting Theon before; now he can’t focus on anything else. Jon pushes his hand roughly through his curls. An image of Theon from earlier, haggard and disheveled, flickers in his mind’s eye, and his stomach twists. He fucked up. He really, really fucked up.

So what exactly can he do about it?


	5. An Unorthodox Apology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Laura and Mia for all the help! 
> 
> Originally I thought this fic would have five chapters, but writing this one, I decided it worked better as two (...PROBABLY two. possibly three but probably two). Also I wanted to post SOMETHING, after all this wait. It's going to be another long one until the next chapter though, unfortunately, although as always feedback goes a long way towards motivating me to write. 
> 
> As always, concrit is very welcome.

The problem is, Jon’s got no idea how to apologize.

In the years they’ve known each other, Jon _has_ apologized to Theon before. Rarely; he only ever did it when his guilt outweighed his pride. Except the first time, which was at Ned’s behest, to teach Jon to own up to his mistakes. Even when he'd hurt someone he disliked.

But when Jon apologized, Theon had only gotten angrier. It was the same after every apology. Jon wasn't sure why, but if he had to guess, he’d say it was because it acknowledged Theon's hurt feelings. That never used to matter to Jon; Theon's feelings were less of a concern than Jon's guilt. Except now he thinks about the way Theon avoided his eyes earlier, and guilt twists in his stomach. 

That night, Jon comes to Theon’s door. 

When Jon knocks, a muffled “What?” comes from inside the room. Jon takes a deep breath and pushes the door open. Theon's lying back on his bed, phone in hand. The creak of the door makes him look up. When he sees Jon, his eyes flash with something unreadable, and then his face goes blank.

Apprehension coils in Jon’s belly. He steps inside, closing the door behind him.

Theon puts his phone down on his bedside table. "Snow," he says, almost but not quite a question.

Slowly, Jon climbs on the bed, first one knee and then the other. Without breaking eye contact, he crawls towards Theon gingerly. Theon doesn't move, just watches warily until Jon's up on his hands and knees over him.

Theon looks up at him, his face guarded. Jon catches his gaze and keeps it. He wants a glimpse of Theon's thoughts, but there are no secrets in his eyes, just ribbons of gold streaking the green. 

Exhaling, Jon leans back so he’s half-sitting, half-kneeling. He trails his fingers down Theon's chest, only barely brushing the soft cotton of the t-shirt. Despite the lightness of the touch, Theon's breath hitches and his lips part. It's fascinating to watch, and maybe a little gratifying, too.

Jon lets his fingers linger at the bottom of Theon's shirt, playing with the hem and the bare skin under it. He glances up at Theon, who isn't moving, just watching, still cautious. _Do something,_ Jon thinks, a strange impatience seizing him. He shoves Theon's shirt up, rucking it under his armpits until Theon gets the hint and pulls it off himself.

Triumphant, Jon takes in the newly revealed terrain. Theon’s skinny, skinnier than Jon had thought; when he inhales, Jon can see the faint outlines of his ribs. His nipples are stiffening to small points. His chest hair is light, sparse, and neatly trimmed. Jon runs his fingers through the diamond-shaped patch on Theon’s sternum, and Theon shivers.

Tracing his fingers down Theon's bare chest, Jon waits for Theon to slap his hand away. But Theon doesn't, and when Jon looks at Theon's face, there's no annoyance or impatience there. His eyes are dark, locked on Jon, and wanting. His apprehension easing some, Jon lets his fingers travel to the waistline of Theon's jeans.

Jon scrapes his nails lightly over Theon's lower stomach, pleased when the muscles jump. Then, without warning, he drags the heel of his hand over Theon's crotch.

Theon breathes in sharply through his nose, and Jon, smiling slightly, does it again. He gropes Theon through his jeans, watching Theon's face and the bulge in his jeans. Once Theon's hard and squirming, Jon rocks up onto his knees. He pulls his own shirt off, kicking off his sweatpants. He drops the last of his clothes over the side of the bed and straightens up, naked. Theon makes a strange little chirp.

Heat crawls up Jon’s cheeks. Pretending he he can’t feel it, Jon lets his curls fall into his eyes, and busies himself with Theon's jeans. He tugs them down enough to free Theon's cock; the familiarity of the sight is strange, and Jon ignores it. He decides he wants Theon’s all the way off—might as well—and removes them. He climbs back over Theon's legs and, as he settles, glances up hesitantly through his eyelashes.

Theon's eyes are roaming hungrily over Jon's chest, looking like he can’t decide where he wants to look most. A pleased little shiver goes through Jon's body. Abruptly, he remembers why he came to Theon’s room.

He leans forward over Theon to rummage in the side table. He must look ridiculous, naked and up on all fours, but he tries to focus on the goal. Thankfully, the condoms and lube are in easy reach, and Jon doesn't have to meet Theon's eyes when he rolls the condom on him, or when he spills the KY on his fingers and coats Theon's dick with it. Theon's fists curl, white-knuckled, into the sheets.

“You were thinking about this?” Theon murmurs.

Jon ducks his head. “Thinking about you.”

Wiping the leftover slickness on his thigh, Jon shifts up on his knees again and reaches for Theon’s cock. It twitches a little in his hand, but otherwise Theon doesn't move. There’s confusion all over Theon's face until Jon starts lowering his hips.

Theon whispers a garbled, "Oh, fuck," when he realizes what Jon's about to do.

Jon’d fucked himself on his fingers before coming in. He's never liked doing it much; it always feels like a dull parody of how getting fingered is supposed to feel. The angle's never quite right and it always leaves an unpleasant ache in his wrist. But he'd done it, thinking of Theon, telling himself what it'd be like to have the real thing. Focusing on how aching and unsatisfied he felt made sneaking into Theon's room much less daunting, even though the wet slickness between his legs made the walk intensely uncomfortable.

Even with his preparation, it's still enough of a stretch and burn to make him hiss as he sinks down on Theon's cock. He closes his eyes, breathing out slowly as he takes it inside. It's not good yet, but it will be, and the potential's enough to make warmth spread throughout him.

When the raw feeling starts to fade, Jon bites his lip and rocks down. He eases into a gentle rhythm, slow and steady, running his blunt nails through Theon’s chest hair down to his hips, the only part of him that _isn’t_ skin and bone. Regret flits in that they’re not likely to do this the other way around, Jon taking Theon from behind while holding him by the flare of his hips, but Jon puts it out of his mind.

He opens his eyes again and looks down, finds Theon looking up. Jon holds his gaze for a moment, and then a wave of pleasure hits, taking him by surprise. Jon’s eyes roll back, a quiet _ah_ escaping his lips, and then Theon's leaning up, in Jon’s space, mouthing at his ear. Jon shudders, gasping and digging his nails into Theon's shoulders.

Suddenly Theon’s everywhere all at once, plastered to Jon’s front and suckling his earlobe. The steady control Jon'd had seconds ago is gone, his careful rhythm fractured; he can't seem to get enough air in his lungs. 

Theon mouths a hot, wet path along his jawline, Jon automatically tilting his head back to let him. Theon moves up to Jon's chin, and then, strangely, pulls back.

Confused, Jon turns his head and finds Theon's nose brushing his. Theon hadn't gone far, so now they're close—in each other's space, breathing each others' breaths. They’ve only ever kissed that handful of times, but Jon wants to kiss Theon now, so badly that his body aches with it. Theon's looking at him like he's aching, too.

Jon leans forward, just enough, and Theon groans and crashes into him, arms coming around his back so he’s pressed against Jon’s front. Jon clutches at his shoulders, kissing back fervently. Kissing him is like the first gulp of water after a long run—immense relief, but not enough.

It’s sloppy and greedy and careless. Theon’s skin is hot and his mouth is hotter, and something like a growl burns in Jon’s throat. His body wants to breathe Theon in, to twine with him permanently, isn’t soothed by the impossibility of it. He licks inside Theon’s mouth, clutching him harder until Theon jerks abruptly back.

Jon's eyes fly open. Theon’s staring at him, just as shocked and lost as Jon. For a long beat, they search each others' faces for some clue of what to do, of what’s allowed.

“Fuck it," Theon says suddenly. He bites Jon's chin quickly. " _Fuck_ it," he says again, and flips them over.

It knocks the air out of Jon’s body when he lands on his back. Then Theon’s on him, grabbing Jon's thighs to yank him in close and hold him place. Theon's eyes have this intensity, this hunger, that sends heat flooding all throughout Jon’s body. He pulls Theon's head roughly down to his, needing to kiss him again.

Then Theon rolls his hips. The kiss breaks. Fuzzy sparks burst at the edges of Jon's vision. Jon gasps for breath, his forehead still pressed to Theon’s. _Well,_ Jon thinks, dizzy, _this angle’s better,_ but Theon does it again and Jon's words are gone, and his nails go scraping down Theon’s back.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Theon hisses, hips stuttering, and Jon repeats it, wanting to hear more.

He gets the noises: Theon's hushed curses, his creaks of pain. But he gets more too: Theon redoubling his thrusts, slamming into Jon so hard that his eyes cross. He squeezes them shut tight, shuddering with silent _oh_ s.

Jon can't keep his breath from hitching and catching. He doesn't have the self-control, not when he can feel Theon everywhere, pressing feverish kisses to Jon's skin and clutching at him. This isn’t what Jon expected when he came to Theon's room tonight. He'd ride Theon, he thought, Theon would smirk and tease and pretend Jon hadn't taken his breath away. This—the way Theon looks above him, unraveling bit by bit, the frantic kisses at Jon's neck—Jon hadn't expected anything so—

Then Theon's biting at Jon's earlobe and Jon's back arches off the bed, a moan trips through his lips. The last of his self control seems frayed to ribbons.

"God, Jon," Theon says, his breath hot on Jon's ear, his jaw. _Jon, not Snow_ , Jon realizes, and something hot blazes in his chest.

“ _Jon_ ,” Theon groans again, and he lunges forward to suck at Jon's earlobe. Jon hears himself whine, but he's too overwhelmed to drudge up embarrassment. Theon's rutting into him so fiercely that Jon’s whole body rocks with it, that he has to dig his nails into Theon’s shoulders to ground himself.

He's clutching him, eyes shut, mouth open, barely breathing. His cock throbs and now that he's remembered it, it's all he can think of. He grasps it with one hand, clutching Theon's shoulder tighter with the other. 

Theon groans like he’d been waiting for it, or hoping, and Jon’s stomach tightens like a fist as he wonders which it was. He squeezes his eyes so tight that the black behind his lids bursts with sparks. His chest heaves, trying desperately to catch his breath. Theon’s fucking him so hard the headboard thumps in rhythmic, dizzying time. Jon’s hand flies on his cock, frantic and frenetic. His head pounds, his toes curl in the sheets, his muscles clenching; he arches off the bed. 

Awareness fades out like a radio station turning into static.

It fades back in slowly, fuzzily. He opens his eyes to his own come striping his belly, Theon still rutting into him, panting. Jon’s hands flutter to Theon’s shoulders, to Theon’s hair, murmurs encouraging nonsense until Theon stops, shudders, slumps on top of him. 

Theon’s heavy, sweaty, and warm, and Jon slides his hand down his back as they catch their breath. For a moment, Jon entertains the thought of Theon staying inside of him, and a shiver runs through him. But then Theon grunt-huffs and moves away, and Jon, strangely disappointed, remembers the condom. Theon pulls out, pinching the base of the condom like it’s second nature, and stands up to throw it away. Jon watches him go, taking in the the angry red lines all down Theon’s back. They look painful, like they won’t fade for days. Jon should feel guilty, but instead he feels like he could purr.

Remembering the mess on his stomach, Jon gropes for the tissue box on Theon’s bedside table to give himself a cursory wipe. When he’s done, Theon’s there, holding the wastebasket for him to drop the tissues in. Jon does, and Theon moves to replace the bin.

Jon closes his eyes, stretching slightly. A fuzzy warmth is permeating throughout his body, and when he moves he can feel the extent of the pleasant ache in his limbs. They’re heavy, and feel almost like they belong to someone else, and Jon doesn’t want to move. Possibly ever again.

The side of the bed dips, and Jon tilts his head. Theon’s there, watching him with a strange, unreadable expression.

Jon smiles at him sleepily. “I can’t feel my toes,” he admits.

Theon makes a small noise. He moves slowly down onto the bed, lying on his side next to Jon, still watching him with that odd look. Whatever it is, it’s not anger, and Jon doesn’t think it’s hurt, so he closes his eyes. He can figure it out some other time when he’s not so sleepy.

He doesn’t really want to walk back to his room. He opens his eyes again. 

“Can I stay here?” he whispers. “I don’t want to move.”

“I—you,” Theon says. “I mean, you can. Stay here, whatever. I don’t care.”

Jon smiles at him again and turns towards him, curling up on his side.

Sleep pulls Jon down like water down a drain. He stays awake--barely--until he feels Theon lie down tentatively beside him.

**

Robb pauses _Welcome to the Black Parade_ , taking out one headphone to check that the bed-creaking and moaning has stopped for good. A beat passes, and then another, and Robb decides that they're probably done. 

He pads to his doorway to poke his head out into the hallway. It’s empty, but the door to Jon’s room is still open. Robb leans out a little further, balanced precariously on his tiptoes, to get a better look, and confirms that no one's there. 

Robb leans back into his own room, quietly closing the door. 

“...Huh,” he says.


End file.
